


and let weary burdens rest

by Sovin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exhaustion, Friendship, Gen, Insecurity, background courfeyrac/marius/cosette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 01:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10400439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sovin/pseuds/Sovin
Summary: Hard work wears thin, and Courfeyrac is overburdened, overtired, and could really use a reminder that the people who love him know the price he (willingly) pays. And a hug, he could use one of those too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer applies, etc., etc.
> 
> So, burnout is hard and emotions hard and things are overwhelming. It was supposed to be pretty self-indulgent, but actually, considering the way things are... I dunno, y'all, remind your friends you love them and play some card games or some shit.
> 
> Anyway, please come say hi and chat about these nerds and their great friendships over at [my tumblr](sovinly.tumblr.com)!

“Hey,” Cosette says, and her voice is so, so soft against his ears. Her fingers card through his hair, sweeping the curls back from his face and smoothing them down.

“Hi,” Courfeyrac replies, tilting his head as if following the pull of her stroke. It takes a moment to focus on her, his vision wavering at the edges after staring too-intently at the computer screen for so long.

Cosette smiles at him, her bright brown eyes shining with it as much as her mouth, and he melts into the touch of her hands, still combing his hair back from his face. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” Courfeyrac agrees, eyes sliding shut, they way they’ve been trying to for the last hour. He rolls his shoulders out of their hunch and can hear as much as feel as his bones settle back into their places. He should open his eyes again, but he is so tired and her hands feel so good.

Vaguely, he wonders if he should apologize, but Cosette doesn’t seem upset, leaning her elbows on the back of his chair and kissing his forehead.

“How are you?” she asks, still petting his hair, uncaring that it’s likely an awful, greasy mess right now.

Courfeyrac considers that, stretching out his legs and turning his arched feet until those pop too. It feels delightful – he’s been sitting most of the last few days, if alternating from the desk to the couch to the bed. His strained eyes drag at him and his thoughts seem to echo in his mind.

“I’m tired,” he tells her at length, drawn by the desire to curl up and take a nap. Normally, he can’t sleep during the day, too restless and energetic to lull into a reprieve, but he thinks he could drift off about now.

God, he’s gotten so little sleep. It may only be two hours less than usual, but he’s kept it up for a week and a half and it’s starting to eat at him. Coffee and energy drinks only cut at his stomach at this point, and even tea seems swamped with acidity.

Above him, there’s a thoughtful hum, Cosette abandoning his hair to push her fingers into his tense shoulders, prodding them like first-risen dough. “Would you like a hug?”

“Yes please.” It’s a fight, but Courfeyrac opens his eyes, contorting so that he can lean into her open arms, head resting on her chest as she pulls him into her gravity. For long, long moments, they stay like that, Cosette pressing her comforting warmth into Courfeyrac’s distant skin. He sighs, feels some of the stress flee his spine. “Where’s Marius?”

She takes a deep, slow breath and exhales thoughtfully, and Courfeyrac finds himself unconsciously mimicking her. “Mmn. He went around to take Monsieur Mabeuf some food and then to the bookstore. I imagine he’ll be a while.”

“That’s good.” He’s drowsy and his words feel slow and clumsy, not in the syrupy way of afternoon sunshine, because the light ducking past the blinds is an overcast grey. Everything in him drags.

This project is consuming him, drowning him in legal minutiae and tracking down translators. A comprehensive guide to legal rights and protections will be helpful for _so_ many people, but Courfeyrac is beginning to forget what it feels like to not be staring at a screen, to speak like a human being. The momentum begins to slip away, and he’ll need even more too-strong coffee to build up his inertia again, but Cosette’s touch feels too exquisite to pull back from.

She hums, her thumb digging absent circles into the meat of his shoulder, pressing until a knot gives way like ribbon falling from a gift. Courfeyrac wants nothing more than to fall asleep against her, even twisted and tense as he is.

“Maybe go see your friends, honey,” Cosette murmurs, infinitely kind even though he can hear the suggestion in the bedrock of her tone. He needs to take a break, he’s pushing too hard. But it’s easier to accept when it’s not all said out loud.

Courfeyrac should keep working. Courfeyrac, though, is also tired, and deep under the weight of exhaustion, he knows that he needs the break.

Still. Still, he’s tempted to call Joly, who will fret at him a bit, then make him a drink and press up against his side as they play video games until Courfeyrac crashes into slumber. Joly is easy and a delight. Or Grantaire, who would let him sink down under fatigue and bare his murky heart.

The thought of seeing his best friends gives him a fluttering flinch that Courfeyrac knows isn’t reasonable.

So he nods, and rests his forehead against Cosette’s collarbone, studying the faint splay of freckles across her chest. With great will, he straightens, her arms falling loosely from his shoulders, and he reaches out to triple-save his work before tipping his laptop gently closed.

“I have that community biology course later,” Cosette reminds him, pressing a last kiss to his curls. “But if you need me, send a text, okay?”

“Of course.” The words feel mealy in his mouth, and Courfeyrac reaches for the dregs of his water bottle, hoping it will provide some clarity. “I’ll keep you updated. And thank you.”

She smiles, eyes soft around the edges, and he smiles back. As she wanders off to collect her papers, he twists, launching his shoulders upward and twining his arms upward to crack the rest of his body back into place. Awareness brightens, enough that he can pull himself out of the desk chair to his unsteady feet.

There’s a mirror hung in the front hall, in need of attention during this weekend’s housecleaning, but it stands solidly above the line of shoes. Courfeyrac squints at his reflection, at the dusty brown jeans and the rumpled flannel he thinks may technically belong to Cosette, and figures he looks enough like a person not to bother changing.

The world feels dazed around him, the heavy wool of his coat barely sits on his shoulders, and when he steps outside, the pistol-whip wind does little to rouse him.

When Courfeyrac, Marius, and Cosette had moved in together, there’d been careful planning around the people in their lives, which means that Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment is only a stone’s throw away. He doesn’t have to see them every day, but it’s a quiet relief to know they’re close, just a head-clearing walk away when he’s missing them.

Belatedly, he fumbles out his phone and sends them both a text. Dimly, he’s sure that Cosette probably spoke to one of them before just suggesting he wander over, but Courfeyrac tries to be conscientious, especially when his head is muddy and dark. But Enjolras only promises to buzz him up, and Courfeyrac tries to let that pull his shoulders down from around his ears. It doesn’t work.

By the time he enters their building, his fingers are as numb as his brain, and flights of stairs do nothing to warm either.

The door is cracked, swings easily under the pressure of Courfeyrac’s palm. He steps through, peels the coat from his shoulders, braces the heel of his boot with his toes so he can slide it off, raises his voice. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Combeferre replies. His hair is twisted up in place with a pen, his socks lavender wool, his fingernails chipped as he reaches out with soundless grace to relieve Courfeyrac of his coat and hang it on a hook. “Come sit down?”

Mechanically, Courfeyrac nods, flashes a reflexive and empty smile, and shuffles his way into the living room. Enjolras is curled into a corner of the sofa, feet tucked up beside him. His eyes and heart are open as summer curtains, but the buttery-yellow of his favorite quilt draped over the nearby armchair betrays the rearrangement.

The selfless way they love him cracks the insulation of exhaustion and he drops in against Enjolras’ side.

“Ugh, you guys,” Courfeyrac says, half affection, half general complaint about the situation. Tension tumbles wordless in his chest, and he forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch Combeferre sink back down into the cushions.

“You look worn out,” Combeferre notes evenly, his palm coming to rest on Courfeyrac’s knee. Enjolras hums an agreement, his fingers working their way into Courfeyrac’s curls, the angles and curves of his frame radiating a quiet and steady warmth.

Courfeyrac huffs. He loses his battle to his swimming vision, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose. Insecurity bubbles up in him, haltingly bumping against his heart. He chokes it back like nausea.

“Thank you for all your hard work.” Enjolras’ words are well meant and earnest. He’s worked just as hard, Courfeyrac knows, their email chain full of drafts.

And still, Courfeyrac can’t muster it in him to be gracious. “Mm-hm.”

Misery digs its fingers deeper into him, the gaping sensation that he’s only liked and wanted for his usefulness. He’s easy to like when he’s affable and accommodating, and he knows the appreciation is genuine, but it’s hard not to feel taken for granted. He takes up so little space, by his own design, so it’s not fair, but he feels opaque and small.

The logical part of him says he should tell them this, that they won’t resent it if he lays off some of the work, if he needs reassurance then they’ll grant it. He knows, too, that some of it is just the exhaustion drowning him and the relentless pace of the last few weeks, and that they’re just as tired as he is. Courfeyrac concentrates on staying awake, tries to wrestle his eyes back open.

“Courfeyrac?” Combeferre prompts, gentle.

“I’m… really tired,” he replies. If he sleeps, this feeling may ebb away, a symptom of fatigue, or he may at least be able to convincingly deflect their concern. “Can we not, just yet?”

Enjolras’ fingers lighten further even though Courfeyrac can almost feel his worried frown. Combeferre’s hand leaves his knee, the back of it brushing against Courfeyrac’s forehead before smoothing back Courfeyrac’s bangs.

He hums, apparently satisfied that, at least, Courfeyrac hasn’t taken sick. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit? We’ll make something to eat after.”

The thought of getting up is even more draining, but his eyes hurt even closed, strained beyond belief.

“That’d be good,” he mumbles, and opens his eyes, squinting immediately as his eyes fight to find focus. The nausea, low and gnawing, doubles up, and Courfeyrac drags a slow, thin breath in. He kisses Enjolras’ cheek and squeezes Combeferre’s hand before hauling himself to his feet.

“Sleep well,” Enjolras tells him, eliding an offer to keep him company, and Courfeyrac’s heart pangs with abandonment at the same time his anxiety eases.

He hums something vaguely affirmative, sticking close to the walls as he stumbles back towards Enjolras’ bedroom. Combeferre’s room is a cozy place to read, pleasantly cluttered, but Enjolras’ bed is ten times as comfortable. There’s a layer of cushioning on top of Enjolras’ mattress, the sheets are vaguely silky, and the bed itself is piled high with blankets and pillows.

Courfeyrac tumbles down on the bed, debating a few moments before kicking off his jeans to slide under the covers and tug one of the pillows close to mash it under his head. The weight above him soothes him, the faint and familiar scent of his friends’ home wrapping itself around him even as he closes his eyes. They still ache, more than his cramped muscles and dehydrated head.

He thinks about getting his phone out and listening to one of his podcasts while he rests his eyes, but winds up listening to the quiet murmurs and movements out in the living room until he drifts off.

Consciousness breaks over him again slowly, an overcast haze. Courfeyrac instinctively curls tighter into the mass of blankets, squinting blearily against the shifting light. His mouth is dry and he’s flushed warm, but though he’s groggy, his headache’s abated some and he finds it easier to focus his eyes in on his phone screen when he reaches for it.

His nap only lasted a couple of hours, but it feels longer. Part of him is tempted to drop back into sleep, but Courfeyrac has a somewhat vested interest in maintaining something like a sleep schedule. Still, he lingers, slowly stretching out each of his limbs and his back.

Finally, he rolls up into a sitting position, stifling a yawn as he tousles his hair out of its flattened state. Courfeyrac blinks the rest of the sleep from his eyes and leverages himself out of bed, sliding back into his jeans before tugging the covers back into place. He takes his time, smoothes out minute wrinkles with the flat of his hand, delaying.

He’s still tired, still numb, but in an almost pleasant sort of way, the sick tumble of emotions stilled into something calm. When he glances in the mirror, Courfeyrac has to admit that he still looks rumpled, but not quite as dead-eyed as before. Still, he gives his hair one last ruffle for good measure before he slips back out into the hall on silent feet.

There’s been no break in the weather, but the cool grey light is enough to see by. It’s serene and still, the living room patiently waiting for the return of its usual occupants. He contemplates scooping up one of the throws to wrap around his shoulders but thinks better of it, continuing into the kitchen, where he can hear faint voices.

Courfeyrac leans in the doorway a moment, just listening to Combeferre and Enjolras talk through their grocery list while Enjolras finishes washing up the silverware. “Hey.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre greets, turning towards him with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he allows, crossing his arms. “I know you don’t normally have your friends over just to tell them to go to sleep.”

“It’s not unheard of either,” Enjolras points out, nudging the faucet off and drying his hands. “And I know you’ve had people fall asleep on your sofa before.”

Courfeyrac waves a hand, conceding the point. “Still, sorry.”

Combeferre shakes his head, reaching out to squeeze Courfeyrac’s shoulder.

“No apologies. You clearly needed it,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, his hand falling away again, then continues. “If we’ve been asking too much of you–”

He cuts himself off as Courfeyrac shakes his head firmly.

“It’s not that.” Courfeyrac, thrown, takes a moment to find his footing again, stumbling through the words he needs. “It’s not. Look, it’s exhausting for all of us, but there’s an endpoint in sight. What, the end of next week? Of course it’s a lot, but I can be responsible for what I take on.”

To their credit, neither of them looks skeptical.

“Okay,” Combeferre says, holding out his arms. Courfeyrac doesn’t hesitate to lean into his hug, sighing as he rests his cheek on Combeferre’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk about what it is?”

Courfeyrac considers the question, because his initial instinct is still to say no, to wait it out until he’s sure it’s not just the overtiredness. He’s actually really terrible at lying to himself; he knows it’s not just that, though it’s making it worse. “Not really, but I should. Unless I’m crashing your dinner plans?”

Enjolras just shakes his head. “We can eat later.”

His hand settles on Combeferre’s elbow, subtly directing them back to the living room. Courfeyrac allows himself to go, not surprised that they maneuver him to the middle of their seating arrangement. He winds up sitting sideways on the couch, feet tucked under Enjolras’ thigh and two fingers hooked loosely in Combeferre’s from where Combeferre is sitting in the adjacent armchair.

It’s comforting, familiar. Courfeyrac sighs, letting his head tip back so he can study the ceiling and fix his vision on a more distant point.

Methodically, he sorts out what he wants to say, discarding the context and justifications that he knows his friends won’t need. Intellectually, Courfeyrac knows that the deep foundations of their relationship are built up with trust and understanding, tries to remind himself that that’s _why_ he can talk about this, can dismiss the careful padding of explaining all the mitigating factors. His heart hurts and he wants to guard it, but he knows he can trust them, so he’ll offer it out to them despite the nagging fear.

“Sometimes,” he starts, fitfully. Enjolras’ thumb slides up the curve of his ankle, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes, keeps breathing. “I feel taken for granted. Or, well. I guess I should say underappreciated. I know you value how hard I work, everyone does, but when we’re deep in a project like this, it feels like everyone just appreciates me for what I can offer them, not, like, any innate Courfeyrac-ness. I don’t want to ignore all the hard work you guys have been doing; I know you’re both doing _so much_.”

He hums, searching for the way forward, following the line of the shadows curving towards the corner with his eyes, and they don’t interrupt.

“It’s just worse because I’m so tired.” He tests the weight of that, finds it wanting. “I mean, now. I’ve been working hard enough that I’m not getting good sleep, and most of my social interactions are about this, so it just kind of eats at my brain, y’know. Om nom nom, self-confidence. It starts to feel like I sink all this energy and effort into things, and then the response is like, “This is good work, now let’s tackle the rest of this landslide,” which is kind of an occupational hazard, but still.”

Combeferre shifts at the corner of Courfeyrac’s eye, his fingers tightening slightly. “Is that why you feel like you can’t ask for reassurance?”

“Kinda, yeah,” Courfeyrac allows. His bangs have fallen back from his face, but he huffs a breath like he’s blowing them out of his eyes anyway, a nervous tic. Enjolras’ hand is steadying and warm against his ankle. “My problems feel insignificant until they’re crushing. I know if I give myself enough time, they’ll all pass, especially once I get some sleep – see today – and some food and some good conversation, but this is just an intense couple of weeks.”

Another subtle movement, Combeferre tilting his head thoughtfully as he carefully adjusts his grip to hold Courfeyrac’s hand better.  “You know we won’t think less of you if you take a few days off.”

“No, I know,” and he does. Already Courfeyrac’s lungs feel faintly clearer, because he believes the calm certainty in Combeferre’s voice. “I would if I needed, but I don’t think I do, not really. Sleeping definitely helped, but we’ve got another week to go.”

Enjolras moves, his affectionate weight settling on Courfeyrac’s legs, his chin just digging into Courfeyrac’s knee. “Would you like to stay for dinner and a board game while we remind you how much we love you?”

Tears prick at Courfeyrac’s eyes, from weariness and fondness in equal measure. Tiredness always makes him teary and emotional. He nods, waits until he trust himself to speak.

“Uh-huh,” he finally replies, as steadily as he can. “Just gotta text home.”

He fishes his phone out with his free hand, the other still tangled up with Combeferre’s. Courfeyrac has to sit up a little to text Cosette and Marius, but thankfully knows himself well enough that “Staying at E and C’s, call if you need me” and “I love you” are both template texts in his mobile.

“I did the dishes, so dinner is Combeferre’s problem,” Enjolras informs him, nudging Courfeyrac to stretch his legs out. When he obliges, Enjolras snugs up against him, forehead resting against his jaw.

Courfeyrac shakes his head, squeezing Combeferre’s hand before reluctantly letting go so he can get up. Combeferre kisses the top of his head like a promise to return, retreats to the kitchen to give them space. “What, it’s not just a thinly veiled excuse to cuddle with me?”

“Oh no,” Enjolras says, deadpan, face utterly serious. “It’s the low blood sugar.”

“Uh-huh.” Courfeyrac, charmed but still subdued, smiles. “Guess that just means I have to cuddle you.”

His phone chimes, a cheerful two-note tone, and he glances back at it. Nothing from Cosette – probably on her way to her botany class. Marius has replied, though.

“Will use the night to get caught up on my reading!” he’s written, “I’ll ask Legles etc. to show me how to bake a cake to celebrate when your project is done. <3 ”

God, he loves them. Courfeyrac texts back a heart of his own, touched, and tucks his phone away again. There’s still a scraped raw feeling lingering in his chest, but it’s sore, not the crushing desolation of before. He times his breathing, an impulse from depressive days that can’t hurt now.

Enjolras glances up at him and smiles, slight and brilliant. “I hope you know that we all love you dearly. Your verve and enthusiasm make you indispensible, and your grace and kindness and warmth are things that I strive for. You’re clever and bright, and you’re irrepressible. But you’re also unfailingly considerate, and I admire it. I admire how hard you work to communicate what you’re thinking and feeling, and how much effort you put into those around you. You’re a good person and a good friend, and I’m lucky to know you.”

Courfeyrac gives him a tremulous, helpless smile, awash in affection. The hug helps, but this helps too. The words that are too hard to hear when depression shutters his exuberance are a welcome balm, because he feels overwhelmingly loved. Enjolras is good at that.

“Thank you,” he says. “I love you too.”

“I know.” Enjolras’ smile widens, like saying that proves a point.

Maybe it does, but it’s murky to Courfeyrac’s heavy heart. But then, maybe that’s okay.

He doesn’t need to be okay right now, he decides, turning to bury his nose in Enjolras’ mass of curls. The work will wait for him until tomorrow, when his eyes hurt less and his chest feels freer.

All he needs to right now is let himself be loved.


End file.
